


Bruises

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Series: Trinkets [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, bruised ego, more like it, or alana's knees, you pick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The power was out. The power was out, they were sitting around candles, and it was the least romantic evening he could imagine. No food, no music, no flowers, just Alana across the table in a robe with half of his chess pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruises

It all started when he brought out the chessboard.

Well, all right, it actually started with the blackout. It was a hot summer and the lines were old—they should have seen it coming. He had been in the middle of heating up leftovers ( _"Hannibal, that’s a sin, and you know it,_ ”) and the microwave sparked out, along with the lights, the television in the other room, and the hum of the refrigerator. A yelp flew down from the upstairs bathroom and five minutes later a sopping wet towel-clad Alana was frowning in the middle of the kitchen, her hair still soapy and dripping all over the floor. He would have laughed if she didn’t look ripe to murder the first annoyance, so he handed her a camping lantern and a small flashlight. She grumbled and stalked off, trailing the shower with her back up the stairs.

She returned a half hour later, bandaids on her knees and frown seemingly permanent. She snatched a bag of slightly-thawed blueberries from the freezer and draped it over her shoulder before heading to the den.

A loud swear and a crash prompted Hannibal to go check on his understandably clumsy houseguest.

"I hate your bedroom."

She was folded on the floor, back to the sofa, bathrobe falling from her bruising legs.

He smiled in the candlelight, moving to sit beside her. “I quite like my bedroom, thank you.”

"There are  _chairs_  by the bed. And a table, and another table, and that  _stupid_  ottoman at the foot, and—” She rested her head on his shoulder, hugging his right arm to her. “I look like I’ve been in a fight with all these bruises.”

"You tripped over everything, didn’t you?"

She nodded. “I swear I’m not usually this klutzy.”

"I know." He kissed the top of her head, figuring she needed some sort of comfort that wasn’t just him  _sitting_  there. Leave it to Alana Bloom to get him on the floor. “Do you want me to light a fire?”

"In  _July?_ Do you want me to roast to death or something?”

"Not like  _that_.”

She slapped him lightly on the chest. “No cannibal puns when I look like tenderized beef.”

"As you wish." His fingers trailed down her pale legs, sliding aside the terrycloth. "Is there anything you want to do to pass the time…? Perhaps…"

"I just showered."

He growled into her hair, her conditioner filling up his mind. “The shower’s not broken.”

"I’m all bruised and cut up and have a bag of blueberries on my neck. Do I look like I’m in a state for rough sex?"

"Who said anything about rough?"

"Seventy-five percent of the time, it’s rough."

"Fair enough. Anything  _else_  you’d rather do instead?”

"Chess."

Ten minutes later, he was seated behind the black set. The coffee table was at an awkward height and he felt like a child again, not able to reach the surface easily without sitting up on his knees. She sat across from him behind the white pieces and three of his pawns and a rook, edging too close to a bishop for his liking.

"I wasn’t expecting this."

"What, Mr. Manipulative stumped by his  _innocent_  girlfriend, unable to process how she’s beating him in a game of wits?”

He growled and his tone slipped down a condescending slope. “First, Alana dear, you are not my  _girlfriend._  Second, you are  _not_  beating me.”

"Right, sorry, your  _fiancée_ , since we’re being technical. Still can’t believe you said yes, considering how unconventional it was. And yes,  _yes_  I am, I’ve got—” she knocked his bishop off the board, “—five of your pieces, your knights exposed, and am inches from your queen. You have…nothing of mine, and  _my_  king is fortified.”

His eyes narrowed in the near-darkness, not sure where that piece went. “If you win, I break the engagement.”

She snorted. “Of course you will. Do I get to keep the ring?”

The snark battle continued until he’d stripped Alana of her defenses and she’d sent Hannibal’s king into check. He should have denied her this game, knowing how competitive he was—knowing how competitive  _she_  was.

The black king toppled with a final insult and a shriek of glee.

Hannibal groaned and fell backwards in a pout, arms folded across his chest. He was acting unbelievably childish, but he couldn’t seem to  _help_  it, his temper bottled up into the most immature form he could muster. It was soccer all over again and he was twelve, determined to kick the  _shit_  out of the other team, no matter what the actual outcome was.

Except he couldn’t kick the shit out of the other team—the other team was his future spouse, and she was gloating across from him in that teasing robe. He made a disgruntled noise and sat up to glare at her.

"I won fairly, before you start. When do you want to call the church and tell them the engagement’s off?"

"Don’t," he sighed, common sense returning. "We’re still getting married. I’m not letting you buy that extravagant dress for nothing."

"You’re only marrying me so my dress doesn’t go to waste?"

"I’m such a gentleman."

"Yes, that’s exactly what that means." She shuffled around the table and seated herself in his lap, arms around his neck. "Calm down."

"I’m calm."

"You threatened to break our engagement over a game of chess."

"…I overreacted."

"Just a bit." She ran her fingers through his fringe, kissing him on the forehead. "We can play a different game, one where everyone wins."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Strip poker."

Everyone did not, in fact, win. Actually, Hannibal would wager Alana lost, seeing that she ended up nude on the floor, bemoaning his ability to shuffle and the lack of other players. She protested when he—down to his boxers—hoisted her up and carried her to bed, tossing her gently onto the sheets. It took her a few seconds and the right kiss to give up her rebellion, tugging him down beside her, forgetting altogether about her clean hair and clean skin.

In the end they both won, exhausted and content from the last game.


End file.
